INSPIRING PHYSICAL THERAPY
By Tommyhawk1@AOL.COM
WWW.TOMMYHAWKSFANTASYWORLD.COM
WWW.TOMMYHAWKSROGUEMOON.COM
It was easy to spot Craig Bolston in the gymnasium when I arrived. He was the one who was the center of attention. Wearing an old football jersey and a pair of gray sweatshorts, he was propped in a chair, his single crutch by his side, showing admirers a set of photographs out of a small photograph album (the kind you can stick in a large pocket, not full-sized), pointing and talking football.
I considered whether I should interrupt them. The admiration had to be good for Craig's morale, and God knows he was low on it ever since the injury. A bad tackle had turned him from an up-and-coming fullback to a potential high school coach with a bum knee. He'd never play professional football again, not with that injury. But the crutch...I was there to help him get rid of it.
So I hesitated, and then the words I dreaded oozed from the mouth of one of the fans. "When are you going to return to play, Craig?"
As should be expected, Craig's beaming countenance drooped into the twilight of somberness. "Never." he said. "My football days are over. This knee is done in for good."
He got the condolences he deserved, but which he didn't need right then. Expressions of sympathy are well and good, but when they come at the wrong moment, they reinforce the depression. And that was the last thing he needed right now!
"All right, everyone, clear out." I said, clapping my hands like an over-officious school principal. "Craig has to do his therapy now. And you all have your own routines to take care of."
The men grumbled, and some looked like they were going to ask to stay; to those I sent a stern frown that prevented them from asking. The last thing Craig needed was people watching him struggle to walk again.
"Okay, Craig." I said. "Up and let's get at them."
"I don't see why I'm bothering." Craig said. "I'll never walk normal again." The burly body was holding up nicely, Craig took a good deal of relish in doing the body-building routines he could just the same, so his upper body was fleshed out and even bigger than he'd had when he was playing ball. But that's only so good. A man can be in a wheelchair with withered-away legs, but have a chest expansion like a marble sculpture. Fine for them, I'm all for doing what you can, but Craig didn't have to be in a wheelchair, and unless he strengthened his legs to compensate for what he'd lost, he'd be in one before another decade was through.
"Let's not go climbing into the grave just yet." I said to him, mocking his self-pity with my stentorian tones. "You have promises to keep, and miles to go before you sleep. At least two miles today, if I have anything to do with it."
"Ah, hell." Craig grunted, but he got up onto his one good foot, grabbed the crutch with a hop, and began to come at me one-legged, his other foot held clear of the ground.
"No, Craig." I said firmly. "Put as much weight on your leg as you can. Only use the crutch to keep yourself steady. You're not going to tear anything again as long as you're not too rough on it."
Craig put his foot down gingerly and I examined his next few steps critically. By the time he was at the parallel bars, I reached a decision. "You haven't been doing your home exercises, have you?"
"I do 'em." Craig said. The mumble told me volumes.
"All of them?"
"Most of them."
"Craig, I...." I trailed off and shook my head. "Never mind. Come on, we'll do ten rounds on the bars for the first set, and then we'll go to the pool for more therapy."
"Damn it." Craig didn't like the parallel bars, and I couldn't blame him. They're the most obvious of the therapeutic machinery. A pair of bars at waist height, they work as a crutch except you can't possibly get down them on a one-legged gait like with a crutch. You have to walk. They covered a distance of nearly twelve feet, and ten reps back and forth on them would be 240 feet, that's about a half of a city block. But for Craig, it would be raw agony for most of that distance. Still, his reconstructive surgery had been two months ago, it was time he started really using that knee of his again. He was still on a crutch only out of raw cussedness, anyone with a bit of perseverence would have been done with it already!
Craig began to move down the parallel bars, and his movements were distressing to see. He had a substantial limp to the weak side, and after he turned around for the second set, his face was creasing with pain at each step. He got down to the far end for the second round and stopped, back to me, hanging there.
"Finish catching your breath, Craig, then keep it up." I said after a handful of seconds. "We have to push this if you're going to get better."
"Better." He rasped at me as he made the turn. He hopped as he had to let go of the bars; I hated that hop; he didn't have to hop but he'd become used to doing it after two months. "I'm not going to get any better!" And he staggered his way back down to me. Seven more rounds after this one, he had now walked about the length of one side of a normal house, and was exhausted. "I'm going to be a cripple the rest of my life, haven't you figured that out yet?" He wheezed as he made it to me.
"That's not true." I said to his sweating face. "You can do this, you can walk better than you're doing."
"I'll never run again!" he snarled at me. "Never walk normal again! What the hell else do you want out of me?"
Craig had given up. I could see that in his eyes, in his face, in his painful walk. He'd walk with a limp from now on, certainly, but after a comprehensive course of therapy, you'd have to stare carefully at him to notice it! He could be very close to normal if he'd concentrate on his course of treatment. He could be...something other than the football star he'd been before. Have to leave behind everything he'd ever dreamed of. What could I offer him to replace that?
I forced my face into a fierce snarl. "You whine like this during football practice?"
That took him aback. "No, but...."
"But me no buts!" I said. "You got where you were in football by giving a hundred and ten percent, right? So give me a hundred and ten percent now!"
His face crinkled up first in perplexity, then in defiance. "And what are you going to give me if I do?" He said back to me. "My football coach had a scholarship and a hundred-thousand-a-year contract to back him up. What have you got?"
I'm not sure where my answer came from. But I grabbed underhanded and caught hold of his basket inside those gray shorts. No undershorts underneath them, he wasn't wearing any, that cock and balls were swinging loose inside that broad, empty space. "Are these just for decoration, Craig, or are you a real man?"
His voice came out clear, but had a hint of a catch in it. "I'm more man than you'll ever be."
"Then prove it. Get up and back down that row another time. Then we'll talk some more. Move!" I gave his cock a deliberately hard squeeze, enough to make him wince, then I let go and turned my back on him.
"Back up and down. Then we'll talk more." he muttered. But the sounds around those words told me he was doing it. "What kind of a bastard is he, anyway? Coming in here with a grin and an attitude like a fucking cheerleader wearing hot pants, is what he's got." He kept that sort of thing up all the way up and all the way back. He didn't hop to make the turn at the end, either, and his speed on the way back was considerably faster than the ones before.
I carefully kept my face neutral. "You back for more, pussy boy?" I sneered. I grabbed his cock again. "You got six more rounds before you're done. By the time you're done, these are going to be shriveled up into a prune and two raisins, I bet."
"The hell you say." Craig returned. "I got enough in me to walk that six rounds and still fuck your ass when I'm done."
"Okay." I said. "You're on. You finish those six rounds and I'll take care of anything stiff you can bring out at the end of it. I'm betting you can't do it, because you're a weak little turd-roller just like your momma!"
"Fuck you." Craig said. "You just watch me. I played a quarter with a broken arm and I can walk on a bad knee if I have to. Just watch! Watch!" And he was swinging down that row again. He wasn't pushing down nearly as hard on those bars as he had before. His gait was straighter, too.
He made the fifth round back and forth in about thirty percent less time than he ever had. I didn't mention it, just said, "Five more to go, pussy."
"Five more, you got it. And you're the pussy...pussy!"
I got hold of him once more. This time, he had some swelling on his cock to meet my hand. "I can play a pussy...if I have a man to play it for. Are you that much of a man, Craig? Or just a washed-up cripple pretending to be a man?" This was no time for politically correct talk, I had to keep Craig's adrenaline level up!
Craig snarled at the word, even though he'd called himself that. He made it up and down that set of bars again, still making good time, though he was sweating. When he came back, I said, "That's number six. Four more to go."
"Damn!" Craig was panting heavily. "Damn!"
I got his crotch again, but now I was cradling it lovingly. "Is Little Craig feeling hungry enough to keep it up?" I asked him. "Can your little head make your big head keep going?"
"Maybe." Craig said.
"If he can get you to finish round seven, I'll give him a big kiss." I promised. "At eight, I'll take him all the way down and hold him there a moment. At nine, a few honest-to-God sucks. And at ten, you get to finish off. How's that for inspiration, Mr. Football Hero Craig Bolston?"
"A kiss this next time?" was all Craig said. "Okay, you're on. You get those lips puckered up, because I got a dick you'll be getting it on with."
"I'm ready when you are." I said, and with his back to me, I dared a smile. Yeah, I got Craig inspired enough to finish his set.
He was sweating enough to drip on the way back of round six, but he also had a jutting protrusion tenting out his shorts. As I had promised, I knelt down at the entrance to greet him when he got there.
"Made it!" Craig gasped when he made it to me. "Give me a kiss, bastard!"
I pulled down his shorts and saw the raw pink monster peering at me. Jesus, this was a huge prick. Why do football jocks always have such huge mothers on them? Unless they pump themselves with steroids or such, but Craig had never done that. His muscle was the result of long, honest, hard work. And his love-muscle was just as long and hard!
I puckered my lips and met that glans right on its pearl of pre-come, let the streamer drip out and between us when I pulled away. Craig sighed when I did that, and I let the large, shiny, obscene rope of clear pre-jizz splat on the floor, then I pulled his shorts back up. "Okay, get moving on round Eight."
"Eight! Right! Eight!" Craig gasped out. His eyes were wild and unfocused as he turned (again, not using the hand rails at all) and caught hold of them and wended his way back. His gait was much straighter, now. But he hadn't walked much for over two months, and the strain was telling on him. I was pushing his limit. The only way to toughen up a football jock is to drive him to the edge, and keep right on driving him!
"Shit! Uh! Shit! Uh! Shit! Uh!" Craig said on the way back of round seven. The "uh" was him stepping on his good foot, the "shit" was his stepping on his foot with the bad knee. It was hurting him. I expected that. No muscle atrophied by surgery and bed rest ever returns to its duties without complaining. As long as the pain was dull instead of sharp, the pain was welcome!
Craig made it to the end and he was panting too heavily to talk. "Huh! Huh! Huh! Huh! Huh!"
"That's eight." I said. "Come to papa, Little Craig!" And I again pulled down his shorts. This time, I wasn't marveling at the huge pud, I just dove onto it and sent it down my throat, held it there while Craig's pants turned to moans. I held tight to the shaft while I pulled my lips off of him, and Craig groaned the entire time I did that, until I let it go and again covered him up.
"Two more to go until golden time." I said to Craig pain-creased face. "Just think how good it's going to feel when I take it the next time. I'll work it for you next time, all the way down and all the way up. Isn't the thought of that worth a little more pain?"
"Uh! Huh! Huh!" was Craig's response, but he turned once again. This time, he had to grab for the bar in mid-turn. I didn't say anything, that was okay at this stage. Long as he kept on moving, I was happy.
He was putting a good deal of weight on the leg, though not as much as before. I expected this, really, he was hitting his pain threshold and compensations were to be expected. As long as he was putting weight on it at all, I was happy, anything other than a one-legged hop would be fine with me!
Coming back was sheer agony for Craig, but he did the entire thing with his eyes fastened right on me, and a bulge in his crotch. Sheer orneriness was driving him now, that cussed spirit that won't let go no matter what. Just what you need to tap for some real physical therapy.
I licked my lips obscenely as he got closer and he managed a grin through his pain as he struggled the last few steps. "Nine!" he got out as he hit the end.
"Nine it is!" I said and as I bent down, I said, "In fact, I think it's a bit more than that."
"Yeah!" Craig gasped. "Take it all!"
"With pleasure." I said and I swooped down on his cock like a falcon diving onto a snake! Only it wasn't talons I wrapped around that magnificent trousers-serpent, I shoved that mushroom head down my throat and I grabbed tight to the shaft and I milked him hard!
"Oohhh, ahhhh, craaaaap!" Craig heaved. "Shit! Ah! Hah! Hah! Hah!"
Long and pleasurably I suckled that huge pud, driving the hard dong in and out of my mouth, Craig hanging on to the rails now in sheer desperation. His cock was so hard and so hot, I didn't dare do it too long, so with a great reluctance, I let go after about two minutes and I said, "Okay, it's the home stretch! The teams are tied thirty-all, and you have to make it ten more yards for a touchdown. You have fifteen seconds left on the clock. Can you do it?"
"I can do it!" Craig moaned. "Ah, shit, for you finishing me, I can do it! A-huh!" And he turned around, and sweat plastered his jersey to his back like a second skin, the white turned to a dull mottled brown, the brown being his tanned back. I watched the muscles play as he cranked himself desperately down that endless stretch of bars. Ten feet doesn't look like much...until every step is a nightmare and every foot of ground is misery. But Craig went down it like a champion. This was the man who had won trophies, who had plowed through defensive lines like they were made of tissue paper, the man who had taken body blows and shaken them off. It was bestial, it was raw, it was animal...and now it was moving him down that rail line to the end.
Turning him around!
Bringing him back to me!
"Come on, Craig, come on!" I said. "You got a hungry mouth waiting for you, it's your trophy if you can win it, Craig, come on, come on, do it, do it, do it!"
Every breath he took was a massive heave of his ample chest. Every expellation of breath was a gust of wind that roared from his parched throat. But he made it all the way down to me, again, and I dropped to my knees in adoration at his triumph.
"Come on, suck it, suck it!" was his answer. "God damn it, I'm about to explode!"
I pulled his shorts all the way down now, and I sucked him down and when I did, a massive paw of a hand drove my head until the very end of the shaft was nestled in my lips, which were kissing his pubic nest. I had to squirm to get him to let me go, but when I released him, I kept my lips tight. He had earned this blowjob, earned it with sweat and misery and agony that was probably throbbing in his knee right now, he was going to get the best blowjob from me I could give him!
Long and deep, high and full, I sucked Craig's hard dong, sliding my lips over the glistening shaft, wringing the joy from his tattered throat in heavy grunts that ripped from his ragged gullet, and throbbed from his enraged prick, I knew this therapy-exhausted man was near the end of his endurance in more ways than one! So I plunged down hard and I pulled up harder! Milk this stud! Pump him dry! Harder, yes, harder, yes! And Craig above me, moaning desperately.
His breaths as he climbed to climax were like the sound of a locomotive bleeding off steam from its valves, HHHSSSS, HHHHSSS, HSSSSSS, SSSSHHHH, SHHHHH, SHHH! SH! SH! SHH! SHH-HHHHHHSSSSSSSS!" And that was all the warning I got when he came.
A hot explosion of come into my mouth, all the raging hormones of an adrenaline-driven man-monster, he was pouring it all into me at once, his energies bursting into me in one urgent, driving, imminent surge, and then he was done, and near collapsing, I had to grab hold of him and steady him while he spent all his leftover energy in breathing!
"We'd better get you over to the bench." I said quickly when he caught his breath again. I helped him get his shorts up, then helped him limp over there, his crutch was...elsewhere, I hadn't seen it in a couple of glimpses, and now wasn't the time for a careful search. But I got Craig onto that bench and I said, "Well, congratulations, Craig, that was the longest stretch you've ever put into the parallel bars."
"I had some inspiration." Craig said with a smile.
"Yeah." I said. "Now what do I have to do to get you to get in the pool and work that knee some more?" He wasn't going to want to come again very soon, so I was.....
His hand got hold of MY crotch. "How about if I stay in there a half hour, I get this?" he asked me.
I looked down at him. Really? His face had the right amount of grin and seriousness mixed in to tell me yes!
"You're going to have to do more than stay in there to get some of this." I said carefully. "You're going to have to do all your exercises as I give them to you. Do you think you can do that on top of the therapy you've already had?"
"I'm ready. Hell, I was born ready." Craig said. "I just needed some inspiration to get me moving, is all."
"Then let's get you out there in the pool and get you started." I said. "You go rinse off in the shower and get into your swim trunks. I'll meet you at the pool in fifteen minutes' time."
I fetched him the crutch and watched him walk away. Really walk, using the crutch for support, but putting weight on his knee.
He was right. He had it in him to do the therapy he needed to recover from his injury. He'd just needed the right inspiration.
THE END
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